


In the Mind

by Tibbins



Series: True Faces [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Angst, Extremely Dubious Consent, Hell Trauma, Implied Castiel/Dean Winchester, Implied/Referenced Rape/Non-con, M/M, POV Dean Winchester, Past Alastair/Dean Winchester, Past Relationship(s), Past Torture, Post-Episode: s13e12 Various and Sundry Villains, Self-Destructive Dean, Supportive Sam Winchester, Talking
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-11
Updated: 2018-02-11
Packaged: 2019-03-16 14:53:23
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,084
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13638501
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tibbins/pseuds/Tibbins
Summary: Sequel to 'Behind the Mask'. Set just before 13x13. What had been a healing discussion for Sam turned out to be a sharp reminder that Dean really hadn't needed.





	In the Mind

**Author's Note:**

> Hi everyone!
> 
> So here is the sequel to my previous fic 'Behind the Mask' it will make a lot more sense if you read that one first but hey, do what you want, I don't control your life.
> 
> It was brought to my attention that a healing conversation for Dean would be interesting to explore too, and, because I didn't want to overshadow the importance of Sam's development, I thought it best to make this an entirely separate fic rather than just another chapter.
> 
> As a warning, there is a lot of dark stuff mentioned in this fic although I don't go into too much detail; torture, allusions to rape/dubious consent, an abusive and toxic past relationship and all of the Hell mentions. If that stuff is not for you then it might be best if you read something else.
> 
> Enjoy ^_^

 

Dean sat on his bed, his arms folded over his chest as he listened to Sam stumbling from his room in the direction of the kitchen. It was four pm and apparently, his brother had only just woken up. Dean smiled, good. Sam needed the sleep. He'd bet that it was the first proper rest he'd had in a while. Dean himself hadn't slept, despite his stupidly early start. But he'd been productive in other ways. Dean reached over and grabbed the half-empty bottle of whiskey that had been in his sock drawer for a couple of months now. It had been unopened when he'd woken up to his blaring alarm, determined to get everything set up for the conversation that Sam had clearly needed.

Dean took a long pull and then let out a hiss at the burn. His mind was spinning and he knew that the alcohol wasn't entirely to blame.

He reminded himself that the talk with Sam had been necessary, he'd watched Sam flounder the past few days, seen the shadows grow under his eyes, he couldn't stand by and let that darkness infect his brother. Sam had needed to talk about it. That hadn't made listening to what he had to say all that easy. The stuff about Lucifer he understood, just because it was easy to forget that Lucifer's Bart-Simpson-like attitude hid a much deeper evil than Dean could even comprehend. It was just easier for him to throw out a snarky comment than it was to really stop and think about exactly who he was insulting.

He'd have to be more careful about that, not because he was worried about getting on the Devil's bad side, they'd already salted and burned that bridge and Lucifer needed  _something_  to keep that smug look off his face, but maybe around Sam he could tone it back on the sarcasm. All that stuff Sam told him about what Lucifer had done… Well, Dean knew he had only the barest fraction of an idea of what that must have been like. Acidic fury rose in his throat at the look of helplessness and pain on Sam's face, unnoticed tears leaving shiny streaks on his cheeks as he spoke. Dean's hand curled into a fist that he longed to bury in Lucifer's self-righteous face.

After forcing in a couple of deep breaths, he released the fist, crescent marks where his fingernails had dug into the skin now gouged into his palm. He hoped that Mary had managed to escape whatever Sam had gone through in the apocalypse world. And if she hadn't, well… he hoped that she was as strong as her youngest son.

Dean's brain stuttered back to some of Sam's other words, and his own, about Mary:

 

_***_

_Mom was this... figure from back when being happy was easy. When being happy just... was. And it wasn't perfect but once she was gone everything was bad. So she was the good I held on to, you know? All I had was her._

_***_

 

Thinking back over them, he realised that he hadn't actually talked about who she was now. Guilt bloomed in his chest, squeezing around his heart as he knew the truth that he knew he'd never be able to admit to Sam. The rest of that speech, left unspoken.  _And then she came back and she was a real person and she couldn't make me happy just by being around._  No matter what Amara had thought would happen when he was reunited with the mother he'd been quietly desperate for since he was four years old, he resented her for not being able to change what her absence had caused. He felt it in a core part of himself and he wasn't sure that that childish disappointment would ever fade completely. Shame clawed at his insides. It wasn't Mary's fault, he knew that. He  _knew_  it. But knowing it didn't mean that he felt it. Mary being back hadn't erased any of the pain that her loss had caused him, it had just given him something else to lose.  _Stupid,_  he thought,  _selfish._ Mary was alive, and she was suffering in another world while he sat here, drinking away his feelings and moaning about how having put her on a pedestal when he was a child messed up the miracle that was having her back in his life.

Dean took another large gulp from the bottle and exhaled in a growl. Hating himself, hating his thoughts, hating how even being able to separate the logic from the bullshit didn't help his head straighten out. It only made him feel worse for not feeling better. He screwed the top back on the bottle and placed it carefully back on the nightstand.

He needed to get out of his own head, he knew this state of mind all too well and he couldn't afford to slip backwards, not now that Sam was on the edge too. But Sam's words had dredged up memories he'd thought he'd buried long ago; thoughts about Hell, thoughts about what he'd been down there, none of them exactly pleasant. And it didn't look like they'd be buried again, at least for a while, until he figured out how.

His right thigh began to vibrate, making him jump, almost knocking over the bottle in his haste as he scrambled to fish the cell from his pocket, squinting at the screen until the words made sense, 'Cas calling'.

Dean answered with a grunt.

"Any news on Jack?" Came the expected question. This was how all their conversations started now. Dean rolled his eyes.

"Hey Cas, how was your day? Are you drinking plenty of water? Exorcising well? Did you put on clean underwear this morning?"

"I-" the gravelly voice faltered, "you know I don't need to drink."

"Right. Well things are just peachy on our end too."

"Good. I… I didn't ask."

"Yeah, I noticed."

"Dean," Cas sounded irritated. He almost always sounded irritated on the phone now, as though talking to them was a chore that he'd rather avoid. He'd taken to calling Sam more often, probably because Dean had taken to lashings of sarcasm. "Do you have any leads on Jack?"

"Same as yesterday," Dean sighed, goading the angel just didn't feel as satisfying today. "Bupkiss."

"That's unfortunate."

"How about you? Anything on your end?"

There was a sharp exhalation of breath from the phone.

"Not yet. Well, I should go. I'll call tomorrow-"

"Cas, wait." Dean blurted before he could stop himself. The line fell silent but remained open. He swallowed hard,

"Well?" Cas demanded.

"When are you coming home?" The question came out as a pathetic plea and he hated himself for it.

Cas hesitated on the other end of the phone. Dean was about to tell him to forget it and hang up when the answer came.

"I'll come back when I have a reason to. Was there anything else?"

"Yeah," Dean said, running a hand through his hair, moving past the way that his throat had tightened at Cas' answer. "Sam… we were talking and I told him about… you know, Hell. And I… I dunno, I think for the first time I kinda wanna talk about it." He trailed off pathetically, worrying at his lower lip.

"Dean, I'm really very busy," came Cas' brusque, impatient reply. "If you have nothing further on Jack then I need to get back to my own leads."

"Right," Dean said, "No… Sure. I get it."

"Goodbye, Dean."

The line went dead. Dean dropped his hand to stare at the screen until it went black. He reached for the nightstand and swapped the phone for the bottle. Taking another deep swig he wiped his mouth with the back of his hand, relishing in the comforting burn. Of course Cas didn't want to talk to him about Hell, or about his true face, or about anything, he had his kid to find. Dean couldn't expect him to care about anything else, that would be unfair, that would be selfish. So what did it say about him that he was angry?

But only part of that anger was directed at Cas; sure, he was irritated at the guy, he'd been dismissive and almost callous for weeks now but Dean put it down to nerves, worry about Jack eclipsing any patience he normally had for Dean's crap. Dean shouldn't be trying to push him; he had just thought that Cas would understand, that he was the  _only_  one who would understand.

He could feel a hot flush creeping up his neck and balanced the feeling out with another swig of whiskey. He didn't remember seeing Cas in Hell, those few seconds before waking up six feet underground had been wiped from his mind. But he knew what Cas must have seen; he had seen it himself in the reflections of thousands of terrified eyes. He had seen it in the smile on Alastair's face, heard it in the screams and the oily voice whispered in his ear. Dean knew, because Alastair had shown him. Over that final decade, Alastair had made sure to take every opportunity to carve into him another little reminder of exactly what he had become by leaving the rack. It was in his core now, etched into his soul, the way those Enochian wardings were etched into his ribs. He wondered if Cas could read it as easily; no wonder he didn't want to come back. Maybe his trip to the Empty had shaken loose some good old-fashioned self-preservation which involved staying as far away from him as possible.

Dean chuckled sourly and tipped the bottle against his lips, swallowing down the fiery liquid. Well, whatever, he could live with that. And Cas  _would_  live with that, which was kind of the point. It's not like he needed to unload his crap. He'd already gone through his own spiral, he didn't need coddling anymore. He needed to focus on Sam.

Dean drank until the bottle was empty, then he dropped it down the side of his bed, furthest from the door so Sam wouldn't see it if he walked in and decided he should probably go make himself some food, if for no other reason than to keep up appearances for Sam, who he hadn't heard come back to his room yet. Dean groaned and swung his legs over the side of the bed, standing probably a little more quickly than was wise. The world tilted around him, but only briefly, and it soon settled back. Nothing he couldn't ignore until it was late enough that he could use the excuse of tiredness.

He ran a hand through his hair as he entered the kitchen. Sam was sat with a bowl of cereal, his eyes glued to the pages of that French book Dean had suggested he look through. Dean smiled softly, Sam looked better, more relaxed, and when he looked up to smile at him it was genuine. Dean resisted the urge to ruffle his hair as he passed, although he did clap a hand to his shoulder. Sam's expression changed when he did so. He frowned, scrunching up his nose.

"Have you been drinking?"

Dean rolled his eyes.

"Sam, you  _saw_  me drinking this morning."

"Yeah, but that was beer, you smell like cheap whiskey."

"Seven dollars a bottle isn't  _that_  cheap." Dean grumbled. He rummaged around in the fridge, finally pulling out a block of cheese and butter. Cheese on toast sounded pretty good. He could probably use something a little greasy.

"Dean," Sam's tone was serious, "tell me you're not going to fall apart again." He looked so worried that Dean couldn't help but chuckle gently.

"I'm not going to fall apart again," he said, "it was just a long morning."

"Right."

"Sam," Dean took on a firm voice, the one he had used when telling a three-year-old Sammy that he shouldn't play with Dean's shotgun. "Don't go blaming yourself for this okay? I just needed to take a day, and now I'm over it, alright?"

"You haven't gotten over it in almost ten years, Dean," Sam said, marking the page in the book and laying it down on the table, "why would a day make any difference?"

"Stop making this about me!" Dean said sharply, turning on the grill to warm up before starting to slice up the block of cheese, "you feel better right? Talking helped, right? I literally  _made_  you talk to me so if I can't handle it, it's my own damn fault."

"We don't need to take turns, Dean!" Sam said, standing to face him, "I'm sick of this! Whenever one of us gets to a good place, the other one spirals because they no longer need to keep up a good front. It's stupid and it's not healthy and it needs to stop!  _You_ need to stop. Why can't we  _both_  be able to say we're good, and mean it? Why can't we  _both_  ask for what we need? I'm here for you but you won't talk to me. You never just talk to me. It's like you still see me as this stupid kid who doesn't know about monsters yet. Stop trying to protect me from your crap. I can handle it. So _let_ me."

The toaster popped out the toast, making both of them jump. Dean snatched it and scraped on some butter before layering on the cheese, seething quietly. He hated that Sam was right, hated how somewhere along the way they'd stopped being brothers and started being counterweights to each other. Counterweights that never seemed to quite balance out.

"It's not that I don't think you can handle it," Dean said quietly, "I know you can. But I just don't think  _I_ can handle you knowing." He didn't look at his brother as he slid the toast onto the grill rack.

"Why?"

The question was perfectly simple, perfectly reasonable, but Dean found himself gripping tightly to the edge of the counter all the same.

"Because you'd look at me different and I don't want to see that."

"Dean," Sam's voice was gentle, "I already know that you tortured souls down there. I know that you enjoyed it because of  _course_ you did. You had to. You'd been tortured for three decades,  _anything_  would have felt good after that."

"It's worse than that," Dean said. He glanced at Sam and saw no hatred there, but he wasn't hatred he was afraid of, it was pity, the pity and shock and disgust that he knew would come if he told Sam the full story. "I can't, Sammy. I'm sorry, but I just… can't."

"I've seen you as a demon. Was that what you meant by your true face? Was that who you were in Hell?"

"Sam-"

"You've been tortured over and over again in so many ways by so many people. I get that Alastair was bad, but he's been dead for a long time and it's like he still has this hold ov-"

"Sam!" Dean was shaking, "stop. Please."

Surprisingly, Sam fell silent. Dean checked on the cheese on toast in the grill, it was perfectly golden and crispy. He pulled it out and switched the grill off. After plating it up however, he found that he was the opposite of hungry.

"Do you want this?" he asked.

Sam shook his head. Dean shrugged and tipped the still sizzling toast into the bin.

"You know," Sam said after a short pause, "your reaction scares me more than anything you could say."

"You don't know what it is that you're trying to get me to say."

"Exactly." Sam said with an exasperated sigh.

"Look, Sam. I'm not ready to talk about this, can we do this later?"

"Later? Dean, we both know that if I let this go, you won't come to me when you're ready. No matter how bad it gets for you, you  _never_  come to me for help. I have to push you into talking and I don't  _want_  to. I don't want to be the bad guy here. And I  _definitely_  don't want to push you into day drinking your feelings away, but this has gone on long enough. I'm sick of watching you destroy yourself. Whatever happened in Hell, whatever Alastair did to you. It was not your fault. No more than what Lucifer did to me was mine. And I truly think you need to talk about this. Like with me, now that it's resurfaced, it won't be pushed down again, and I won't stand by and watch you implode, I won't do it. You're my brother and I love you and I need you with me. So talk to me, Dean. Please. Whatever it is… I'm not going to think any less of you."

"You will." Dean said, dropping the plate into the sink, carefully keeping his back to Sam, "You won't mean to, you won't even notice it happening, but you will. And everything will be different and I can't see that look on your face. You're my pain-in-the-ass little brother. You shouldn't see that side of me. You shouldn't even  _know_  about it."

"Dean, we've both almost killed each other more than once. I've seen your darkness before. It doesn't scare me."

"Is that what you think?" Dean asked, his voice trembling slightly with repressed emotion, "you think my true self is some badass, ultimate evil torture master? I  _wish_ , Sam. No. Not even close. Turns out I'm just a weak, terrified, pathetic child who never figured out how to grow up. I wasn't good enough for Dad to want to stick around. I wasn't brave enough to try and find him on my own. I wasn't strong enough to leave you out of it and let you get on with your own life and I wasn't smart enough to keep you safe when I insisted on dragging you back into this. I'm so afraid of being alone that I don't stop to think what that's doing to the people I'm dragging down with me. I've screwed up so many lives just because I was too scared to do the right thing and  _leave_."

"Is that what Alastair told you?"

Dean shook his head, staring down into the sink, at the crumbs and the globs of greasy cheese that clung to the plate. He felt nauseous. He didn't want to talk about this.

"He didn't have to."

"Dean. You know that's crap, right?"

Dean looked up. Sam leaned on the edge of the table, arms folded, staring at Dean like he was nuts.

"Dad, Bobby, Ellen, Jo, Charlie, Missouri,  _me_? Everyone that you blame yourself for, you keep saying that you let them down that they got hurt because of us. You keep acting like they had no  _choice_. Like their lives were just automatically screwed 'cause they happened to be around you. That's nowhere near true. I've had so many chances to leave this life behind. To just pack up and go somewhere else but I don't, because I don't  _want_  to. Because I'm doing something bigger, something important and  _I_  want to see it through. And sure, sometimes it's way too much and sometimes I just want it to be over but I still don't leave and that's not your decision to make. Not for any of us, Dean. You don't get to tell Dad that he shouldn't have given his soul for your life. You don't get to tell Ellen and Jo that they did the wrong thing by siding with us. We've lost good people and it really sucks, it hurts like hell and it's not fair, but nine times out of ten, they knew the risks. They  _knew_  what they were getting into, they knew about the danger and they chose to stay. And we don't get to say that they were wrong because we do the same thing. Free will is what we fight for, right? So stop acting like they didn't have any."

Dean blinked at Sam stupidly for a moment, then he sighed heavily.

"You're right."

"I - what?"

"You're right. I know I pile on the guilt like a damn blanket fort and I stand by some of it, I know that if I had done some things differently, I might have saved them. At least some of them." He held a hand up, quieting Sam's protest, refusing to let himself be overpowered by the memories of carrying Jo, her guts practically spilling out, of watching that building explode, of Missouri's knowing face smiling at him from the news, of Bobby's heart monitor flat-lining, of Charlie butchered in the bathtub, "but I also know that I can't change it. And even if I could, it wouldn't fix everything. I learned that with Mom."

"Then…" Sam said slowly, frowning, the way he did when confronted with a particularly tricky puzzle "why is Alastair-"

"Alastair didn't make me into that thing, Sam." Dean said sharply, "I was already that pathetic when my ass landed on the rack. Alastair stripped me down and showed me how to build on it. He showed me how to be stronger, how to bury it so deep that it just didn't matter anymore. He taught me how to use pain and anger and guilt and he carved me into something new." Dean swallowed hard. He could stop here, he thought. He could just stop here and pretend that it was the torture that kept him awake at night, that soured his stomach, making him want to vomit. He could pretend that there was nothing more to it. But Sam was staring at him with those concerned eyes and he knew it wouldn't be enough. Sam would know if he was holding something back and he wouldn't stop pushing his damn self-help buzzfeed crap at him until he spilled all. And looking at his brother then, he actually felt like he  _should_. Maybe he was right, maybe he didn't have to carry this crap around on his own. If for nothing else then for Sam to get some peace of mind. They'd been through bigger things than re-living past trauma. Maybe he should give his brother some credit. Maybe he should try breaking the cycle.

Resolved, Dean cleared his throat, but although the decision had been made, that slimy voice in his mind whispered his doubts back to him and he could no longer look Sam in the eye. He rested his hip against the counter as though to brace himself to speak, trying to look casual about it while he focused on a cracked tile on the floor.

"When I finally broke, the thing he let off that rack was something that scared most other demons, something that  _terrified_  the souls he let me loose on. I don't think I've ever been more powerful. He showed me his demon face when I accepted his offer but by then I was already in love with him."

Sam's eyes widened.

"You…"

"I know how it sounds." Dean said quickly, cutting him off, "I know it was wrong and twisted and it makes me sick to my stomach, but that's what it was."

Dean paused there to take a breath, several breaths. Alastair's voice in his head was growing louder, more insistent, Sam wouldn't understand, there was no way he  _could_  understand. The way that Alastair had implanted himself under Dean's skin, how he had become Dean's mentor, teaching him the finer points of his craft, how he had been the only solid thing there, the only thing he could count on, the only one who actually seemed to acknowledge his presence. Alistair had crooned to him, lavished him with attention, both good and bad, told him how good he was, how good he  _could_  be if he'd just listen.

The first time he'd kissed Dean, it had been a power move. It had been disgusting and sloppy and intense, praise for a job well done, his first blood shed in Hell, what had turned out to be the breaking of the first seal. It had been Alastair's victory and Dean had come undone. Agreeing to do it had been different than he'd imagined. There had been no hesitation until afterwards, no doubt, no nausea, not that he could vomit down there, unless it suited Alastair of course, but if he wanted to see Dean vomit he could just carve out a cavity in his torso and close a fist around his stomach, apparently it was more satisfying that way.

"Sometimes he'd put me back on the rack just to remind me that he could, because he knew that I wouldn't fight him, I wouldn't even try, because I belonged wherever he said I belonged; on the rack, holding the knives, on my knees."

Dean paused for a moment and glanced up again, just in time to watch Sam's face twist. There it was, that disgust. Dean couldn't say he blamed him.

It hadn't taken long for their relationship to escalate. A few souls, a few hundred, who knew? He hadn't been counting. But one day Alastair had demanded more than the hasty meeting of their mouths and Dean had obliged. There was no passion involved on Alastair's part, it had been a simple calculation of how to wring the most pain out of his favourite toy. He knew that. Alastair was only ever passionate about the pain.

"I was powerful when he let me be. And I let him do whatever he wanted, whatever, just for those moments when he let me have some control. He was the only one who could make me feel anything. Not the other demons who took their turns with me once Alastair was done for the day, not the screams of the souls I butchered; unless  _he_  made me feel something, I just went through the motions, did what I was told." Dean clenched his jaw, remembering the days, sometimes weeks of numbness that Alastair would subject him to. At the time, it had been worse than the rack, when he had been returned to Earth, he had longed for it.

"I only liked it when he let me like it," he hissed through his teeth, "I only hated myself for it when he allowed me to. He knew how to hurt me and he knew how to make me forget pain and he knew how to use both of those things. And I loved him. It was the only thing he didn't have control of." Dean laughed darkly, "that used to really piss him off too, he never understood it, he kept trying to make me tell him but I couldn't explain it either. I guess that mystery was my revenge." His lips curled upwards in a humourless smirk as he stared down at that cracked tile, remembering. Even in Hell, he'd known that he wasn't anything to Alastair beyond a distraction, a promising student at best. But that had been better than the alternative of nothing at all.

Since Dean was raised from Hell, he had tried to reason it out to himself in so many different ways, but falling in love with Alastair was something he knew he would never be able to forgive himself for. It didn't matter that he had still hated him, it didn't matter that he was glad the son of a bitch was dead, it didn't matter that he  _knew_  the love he had felt wasn't the kind of love that came to mind when people thought of the word. That's what it had been for him. It had been the most intense and vile thing he had ever experienced, and that even by acknowledging it for what it was, Alastair had won.

"Dean-" Sam choked, "I'm so sorry that you didn't think you could come to me with this."

"It doesn't exactly slip out in conversation, Sam." Dean said tiredly.

"No, I know, but- I'm just… I'm sorry."

Dean finally dragged his gaze from the broken tile to search Sam's face, he couldn't avoid it forever, he knew; the truth was out now, it was time to face the music. He braced himself for the pity and the horror and the revulsion and found himself taken aback, oh they were there, albeit in smaller quantities than he had been expecting, what he was not braced for however, was the  _gratitude._ Overshadowed only by the love. It shone from Sam's face like a beacon and it made Dean more than a little uncomfortable to see that much emotion directed at him.

"Thank you for telling me, Dean." Sam said, "seriously, thank you."

"I-"

But Sam had already taken two strides towards his brother and pulled him in for a hug. It was brief and confusing but it was nice all the same.

"You shouldn't have had to go through that." Sam said, his voice muffled, then he pulled back, hands still on his brother's shoulders, "it wasn't your fault. What Alastair made you feel… that was just how you got through it, okay? It wasn't real. That's not what love is."

Dean shrugged his brother off and nodded, avoiding his eye, but Sam wasn't done.

"Hey," he said, catching Dean's gaze once more, "you're the strongest person I know, okay? And we've met  _God_. We're gonna get through this, both of us. Together."

Dean nodded again, he didn't trust himself to speak.

At that moment, the main door clanged open, reverberating throughout the whole bunker. Sam and Dean exchanged glances before sprinting for the war room, Dean pausing only to rip the gun from its duct taped holster under the kitchen table.

When they got there, they found Cas standing on the balcony looking sheepish. Dean dropped his arm and gaped while Sam cried out an enthusiastic greeting.

"You didn't tell us you were coming back!" He glanced back towards Dean, beaming, as though this turn of events would be a joyous occasion for him.

Dean however, was recalling their phone conversation from less than an hour ago, and, already drained from his talk with Sam, had no patience for the angel's excuses.

"Sit." he said, placing the gun heavily on the table and shelving his inner turmoil for when he had another full bottle of whiskey, while Cas half-stumbled down the stairs. "Explain."

It had already been a very long day.

 

**Author's Note:**

> So what do you think?
> 
> I am debating making this a trilogy by having the next fic from Cas' point of view. Thoughts?  
> I hope this wasn't too similar to 'Beneath the Mask', I know the plot is basically the same, just with roles reversed but I hope it felt like the characters weren't just going through the same rigmarole again just 'cause I wanted 'em to.
> 
> Dean's relationship with Alastair is one I've always been interested in but never been confident enough to try exploring myself until now. I hope I did it justice.
> 
> All feedback is loved and appreciated. If you feel that I got anything wrong about Dean's reactions to Alastair then please, please let me know. I have never been in that situation and therefore cannot fathom the strength involved to get through something like that. All I can go by is what I know of Dean's character.
> 
> Love Tibbins xx


End file.
